The Heavenly Epilogue
by Keeper of Tomes
Summary: An epilogue to the Unsatisfactory Ending: After the Dark Ace goes poof, this is where we all know he goes. Crack! inside. Collab between me and coconutter.


**Title: **Heavenly Epilogue  
**Authors: **coconutter and Keeper of Tomes.  
**Summary: **After the Dark Ace goes poof, this is where we all _know _he goes. Crack! inside. Collab between me and coconutter.  
**Words: **788  
**Song: **"Hallelujah chorus" from "The Messiah," by Handel (Oh yes. We went there. And came back.)  
**Pairing(s): **St. Peter/The holy halo of holiness

**Warning: **Contains making-fun-of at St. Peter, Heaven, Hell, and Religious Things In General. We're not trying to be offensive. We're just being weird. This is crack, after all. Don't take it seriously, please.

* * *

The Dark Ace could remember his Master's leering face. He could remember the pain of all that power, coursing through his veins like poison. He realizes that it is over, that his nation has finally succumbed to the scourge of the skies: the Storm Hawks. Ravess and Snipe have both been banished. Repton and his brothers are deceased. And now…him.

Suddenly…

"WELCOME TO HEAVEN!!"

The Dark Ace's red eyes widen considerably. "What the heck are _you_?" he snaps at the invisible voice.

A white haired man strides out on a cloud, looking peaceful. "Why," he wheezes, whistling slightly, "I am St. Peter, dear boy."

Dark Ace gave off a quizzical expression of terrified confusion. "…oookaaay?!"

St. Peter nodded benevolently. "So, you are a recently deceased? I suppose we'll have to issue you your halo and wings." He snapped his pruny fingers and produced a pair of snow-white, fluffy, fluffy wings, as well as a glimmering halo. They magically attached themselves to Dark Ace's person.

Who was, to say the least, rather disgusted.

He glanced mockingly at his new wings, mumbling, "Can't you give them spikes, or something?"

St. Peter frowned and shook his head disapprovingly.

Meanwhile, Dark Ace plucked the halo from above his head. "Ugh. So…shiny. And weird."

He tossed it nonchalantly across the…room? Whatever. Anyways, it made a nice frisbee.

St. Peter gasped. "How dare you dent the holy halo of holiness! The Lord will not be pleased with your actions!"

"…Shut up, you old poof."

St. Peter stumbled backwards on his cloud. "Well, that does it. You are going DOWN THERE."

"…Down _where_?"

St. Peter gestured towards an elevator that had not been present moments earlier. It had two floor indications: Heaven and "P."

"What does P stand for?"

"Oh, you'll see." The doors slid open, and Dark Ace found himself forced inside by an invisible gust of wind. The doors slammed shut on St. Peter's grinning and wrinkled old face.

The Dark Ace felt himself descending. Finally, the elevator dinged at "P." The doors opened upon a hospital waiting room. Thing. Whatever.

"So _this _is…Hell?" Dark Ace grumbled.

An old lady gasped. "Oh! Young people these days!"

A little receptionist stumbled up. She had a pair of horns on her head and looked very menacing. For a twenty-something secretary, anyways.

"Oh, you're a new arrival." She glanced at her clipboard. "Room 7B is available for horn and pitchfork fittings. And this isn't Hell, really. It's just Purgatory. Duh. Hell is all…red n' stuff." She rolled her eyes and flashed her fangs.

"So I just sit here and wait for a while?" the Dark Ace asked, incredulous.

"Well, to help torture you, so to speak, all you can do is read Women's Style magazines. So it's not all that fun, either. By the way, everything's in Portuguese."

Dark Ace sat down and crossed his legs. Suddenly, he looks down and sees he's in a _hospital gown._

The receptionist chuckled. "Oh, yes, one of our little jokes Down Here. It is free, though, so you should be pretty grateful. A souvenir of sorts." She tittered and walked away on her scarlet, spiky, stilleto heels. The devil really _does _wear Prada, after all.

Dark Ace smiled as he picked up a magazine and flipped through it.

"Guess I'll have to learn Portuguese, then," he mumbled.

* * *

**Several days later...**

A tall, man-shaped being poked in a bored manner at the Dark Ace with a harp. He had a "Hello, I Am" sticker on his chest, and in neat cursive beneath that was written, "Michael."

"Hey," he grunted. "You."

"Huh?" the Dark Ace snapped irritably.

"What's up with _you_?" Michael responded.

"I haven't had my daily dose of horrible coffee, yet."

"Oh. Well, I'm archangel Michael, and I'm here to inform you that you've been sent to the wrong floor."

"Really?"

"Yes, you're actually intended for Further Down There. Otherwise known as Hell."

"Oh. Does that mean I get to burn in flames of acid and whatnot?"

"No, actually, we've recently remodeled Hell for folks like yourself. Now it's quiet fields of green grass with unicorns. And did I mention the New Age music playing in the background? Excellent inspiration for daisy chains. You'll hate it." Michael grinned. "Plus, we've created an alternate universe where you are supposed to clean the…" He consulted his notebook. "Storm Hawks' ship every week."

The Dark Ace sagged.

"Yes. That's about it."

"For eternity? That's how long I gotta do this?"

"Pretty much. Or at least, until the Storm Hawks forgive you."

"…Yeah. Eternity."

**_Fin_**

* * *

Crack!tastic!


End file.
